


Smelling the Roses

by Spotsy



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Birthday, Fic, Gift, Humor, M/M, Man From Uncle, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spotsy/pseuds/Spotsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon are given a day off.  Slash ensues.<br/>Written for spikesgirl58's birthday. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smelling the Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikesgirl58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/gifts).



It was a surprise to see Napoleon in the driver’s seat, but the day had been full of surprises. Napoleon had awakened before his alarm, which resulted in his getting to work on time that morning--that was Surprise Number One. Waverly had decided to be untypically generous and had given the two agents a much needed day off-- that was Surprise Number Two.

After that, the surprises kept coming at an almost alarming rate. For one thing, the traffic was unusually light since leaving the city. Even more remarkably, there had been no sign of any enemy Thrush, and to top it all off, the two agents were headed off to spend the day in the country instead of out on the town like they usually did.

Napoleon took in a gigantic breath of the fresh country air and closed his eyes to savor it. What a beautiful day! Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced over at Illya. The Russian still looked like a thundercloud, as dark and gloomy as he had that morning. That certainly wasn’t a surprise. Illya could sulk longer than anyone Napoleon knew. And right now, Illya was at his sulkiest, reminding Napoleon somewhat of a blond-haired thunder god. He smothered a grin at the thought of Illya in mythological garb. Come to think of it, Illya would look particularly fetching in a toga.

“Come on, Illya, lighten up. It’s a beautiful day!” Napoleon urged, giving his partner a nudge.

Illya snorted. “You must have gotten lucky last night with that little red-head you’re keen about.”

“How did you—“Napoleon broke off, realizing that he’d just given himself away. He pursed his lips. “Never mind. What is the matter with you anyway? Are you mad because you didn’t get lucky too or something?”

Napoleon could’ve sworn he heard the thundercloud over Illya’s head rumble. “Unlike you, Napoleon, my mind is not always in my pants.” Illya retorted, causing Napoleon to wish he’d never taught Illya that expression.

“For your information, it works just as well in my pants as it does in my head.” Napoleon replied with a smirk.

Illya frowned at Napoleon, but the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly. He shook his head and sighed. “You are incorrigible, Napoleon.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon laughed. “I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Illya scoffed at him, but his voice had lost the biting edge it had previously, causing Napoleon to hope that Illya’s mood would lighten up after all.

“So, where would you like to stop?” Napoleon asked. “That spot up ahead looks good.” He indicated a small, secluded clearing a short distance from the road.

“It looks all right, I suppose.” Illya conceded. Napoleon took that to mean a “yes”-- albeit a grudging one.

Napoleon pulled the car into the clearing and managed to park the car behind a tree with only a barely audible sniff from his partner.

“Well, here we are.” Napoleon announced grandly, opening Illya’s door for him with an elaborate bow. “Your highness,”

Illya looked at the muddy ground and smirked. “Since I am royalty, shouldn’t you spread a coat or something on the ground so I won’t soil my royal shoes?”

Napoleon tipped his head and grinned up at him. “I could carry you across.” he suggested wickedly.

Illya rolled his eyes and gave a deprecating snort. “I like my version better.” he retorted. As he spoke, he grabbed the lunch basket from the back of the car, then sprang nimbly across the mud onto the ground, with a short, “Let’s eat.”

They spread a blanket on the ground underneath the tree and placed the picnic basket Illya’s landlady had prepared upon it. Well, really, she’d prepared it for Illya, but she had crammed the basket so full of food to make sure “the poor dear would get enough to eat-- he really was too skinny”-- that its contents could have easily fed a whole army.  
Illya eagerly rummaged through the over-stuffed basket. “Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, holding up his prize. “My sandwich.” He declared with a happy smile and took a large bite.

Napoleon helped himself to a sandwich. “How do you know that’s your sandwich?” he asked.  
Illya gave him a withering look. “They are all mine. I am just sharing.” he smiled. “But in answer to your question: there is no ketchup and mustard on the sandwiches. My landlady knows that I do not like ketchup and mustard.”

“Humph, that explains the lack of it on my sandwich, then.” Napoleon grumbled.

“If you do not like it, you can always give it to me.” Illya offered graciously.

Napoleon snorted. “Nice try, partner.” he said, taking a bite.

After they’d devoured every last crumb, Napoleon heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. “What a meal.” he said, and looked down at his stomach. “I believe I’ve put on a few pounds.”  
Illya glanced up from his reclining position against the root of the tree. “Does that mean you do not want any pie?” he asked hopefully.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows, “There’s dessert?”

Illya nodded, and sat up. “Of course there’s dessert. Mrs. MacPherson would never dream of packing a picnic basket with no dessert.” He smiled, opening the basket and holding it out for Napoleon’s inspection. Sure enough, there was a pie nestled at the very bottom of the basket.

Napoleon whistled. “How come my landlady doesn’t feed me like yours feeds you?” he asked, protruding his lower lip.

“Perhaps you should consider changing landladies.” Illya laughed.

Napoleon grinned in agreement. “Maybe I should.” He took the knife Illya offered him and cut two slices.

Illya eyed the wedges of pie with disapproval. “Is that what you call a slice?” he sniffed.

Peeved by the remark, Napoleon was about to come back with a sharp retort but was suddenly illuminated with an idea for revenge. “Will you get out some napkins from the basket, Illya?” he asked innocently.

Illya rolled his eyes, muttering something about “Americans and their ridiculous table manners… couldn’t they just lick their fingers?” -- and grudgingly did so.

While his partner’s back was turned, Napoleon wickedly put a paper-thin slice on Illya’s plate. Then he gleefully sat back and waited for Illya’s reaction.

“Here,” Illya said, plopping a napkin in front of Napoleon without ceremony. Napoleon gave a short nod of thanks and watched with anticipation. Nor was he disappointed. Illya took one glance at his plate and stopped short, staring at the innocent slice of pie with an expression of sheer horror. Then, it dawned on him. He shot a baleful look at the culprit whose eyes were traitorously twinkling at him.

“Napoleon!”

Napoleon smiled oh so sweetly. “What’s the matter, Illya?” he baited. “Don’t you like your pie?”

That did it. Illya dove at him, landing Napoleon in the grass with a thud. For the next few minutes, the two men wrestled, at first only in play, and then in earnest.

Illya finally pinned Napoleon under him. Struggling to regain the upper hand, Napoleon tried to twist out of Illya’s grasp, but soon realized he could not. Damn, he thought. It was the wrestling hold that Illya was famous for. And, as Napoleon was discovering, with good reason. Illya had him pinned down like a butterfly on a specimen board.

With as much grace as possible, Napoleon accepted defeat. “All right, partner, you got me.”

“So it seems.” Illya returned, eyes dancing.

Napoleon gave a rueful grin. “Mind letting me up, now?” he suggested, feeling his face growing hot as a flush began to spread across it. He wasn’t used to having Illya atop of him.

Illya noticed Napoleon’s discomfort, and grinned. “Oh, I think I shall let you suffer a little bit longer. I am in no hurry.” Casually, Illya threw his leg over Napoleon, and straddled him, thereby putting pressure on some rather sensitive organs. Napoleon grunted, his face turning bright red. He was no prude, but the fact that Illya was sitting on his cock was-- Napoleon searched for the right word… electrifying…?

Illya peered down at him. “How are you doing, Napoleon? Still feeling… cocky?” Illya grinned at mischievously his own purposeful misinterpretation of the word.

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed to slits. He looked daggers at his partner. Damn Illya. Napoleon could’ve and would’ve gleefully made him pay the price for that. But as it was, he was hardly in any position to make Illya pay for anything.

“I don’t feel anything.” he said somewhat stiffly.

Illya tipped his head. “No?” he gave a slight bounce, coming down on Napoleon with just enough force to get a satisfying reaction from him. Napoleon barely managed to hold back a startled moan.

“Better?” Illya asked softly. Then, without warning, Illya brought his head down and kissed Napoleon.

With the first touch of his partner’s lips on his, Napoleon’s world suddenly spiraled out of control, taking him with it. A mad sort of delirium took possession of him, leaving him powerless to resist. Napoleon took in Illya’s mouth, devouring it with a voracity that frightened him. When Illya pulled away, Napoleon felt strangely bereft. He wanted to kiss Illya again, to feel his partner’s lips pressed against his. He lifted his head to capture Illya’s lips again--

Illya pinned him down harder. It was an authoritative gesture-- one that said: I’m the one who will decide…

There were no words, only the demanding pressure of Illya’s arm across his chest and the hot look in his eyes. Without a word or even a thought of resistance, Napoleon felt himself surrender… and Illya took him.

Lingeringly, and with a tenderness that surprised Napoleon, Illya ran his hands over Napoleon, exploring the curvature of his body, ravishing him with his touch, making Napoleon ache in a way he’d never ached before. His body craved more. Unconsciously, Napoleon began to arc his body upward, mutely pleading.

Illya shifted his position from on top of Napoleon’s balls to a more advantageous position between his legs. Illya looked Napoleon straight in the eyes, seeking permission. Napoleon lay his head back and let Illya take over.

Taking his time, Illya ran his hand slowly down Napoleon’s abdomen, finally coming to rest over Napoleon’s erection. Napoleon clamped his lips tight in the effort to hold back a moan. Softly, at first, and then harder, Illya caressed Napoleon’s cock through the fabric of his pants. Napoleon pushed his hips forward, begging Illya to take him all the way.

Without hesitating, Illya unzipped Napoleon’s fly and took hold of his cock, squeezing ever so slightly. Napoleon gasped sharply. “Illya,” he whispered through taut lips. “Please… ”

Expertly, rhythmically, Illya began to work Napoleon’s cock, coaxing Napoleon until he could no longer hold back the moans and cried out, at the same time, finding his release.

Fully spent, Napoleon lay limply on the ground, the aftermath of his climax filling him with a sweet sense of contentment.

In the silence, Illya softly lay down beside him. Napoleon found himself suddenly at a loss for words, overcome by a feeling he’d never felt before. It wasn’t embarrassment or fear—those feelings could never exist between him and Illya. He was overwhelmed with a feeling of love for his partner that he’d never realized existed until now... and yet, at the same time, had always known it was there. “Illya,” he said.

Illya turned to him with questioning eyes.

“I love you.” The words tumbled out clumsily… unfamiliarly. He said it again, and this time the words filled him with an easiness that warmed him all over. “I love you, Illya.”

The look Illya gave him in return made him want to cry with joy. It was love; sheer, unbridled love. Napoleon knew he’d remember that look for the rest of his life.

For a blissful few minutes, they lay side by side, enjoying the peaceful sounds of nature and each other’s presence; neither wanting nor needing to say a word.

Suddenly, the all too familiar sound of the communicator went off. They looked at each other and sighed resignedly. Losing no time, they rose and gathered their things together. Their short time was up for now.

Napoleon answered as they headed towards the car. “Solo, here.”

“Are you with Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo?” Waverly’s voice inquired through the device.

Napoleon nodded. “Yes, sir, he’s right here with me. What can we do for you?”

“Something’s come up. I’m going to need both of you to report to headquarters immediately.” There was a short pause. “Just what have you two been doing anyway?” Waverly asked. “I’ve been having a devil of a time trying to get in touch with you.”

Napoleon looked at Illya and grinned. “Oh, nothing, sir. Just smelling the roses.”


End file.
